


Bewitched Among the Roses

by Enterthetadpole, SinpaiCasanova



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dark Magic, Drinking to Cope, Drunk Sex, Familiars, Healing, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Public Humiliation, Roses, Sex Magic, Shapeshifting, War, Witch Curses, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 21:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15276780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinpaiCasanova/pseuds/SinpaiCasanova
Summary: Anti is a 17th-century colonist, plagued by his years of service to his king and country. He's the village drunk, often found in brothels and taverns to blur the pain of his past with copious amounts of booze and loose women. But his life is changed one fateful night, by a vengeful Red Witch that's had enough of his destructive nature. He's attacked and cursed, sentenced to a life of pain and misery. But someone else has seen Anti for who he really is. A White Witch named Marvin, who only wants to help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FYI- our version of human Anti is Andrew
> 
> And our human version of Dark is Damien ❤

The crowd is restless and rowdy, shouting over one another with anger in their eyes. They're all focused on the center of the village, where a wooden platform sits. A young girl is standing there before the angry crowd, looking down at her dirt covered shoes with reddened and tearful eyes. Her arms are tied behind her back with thick bundles of rope, restricting her movement. But it's not like she could run anyway. The village priest is standing next to her, holding the good book in one hand and a fist full of her honey brown hair in the other. Today is the day of her execution, brought on by the paranoid accusations of a grieving woman.

"This silver-tongued harlot is responsible for the death of Bridgette Smith's unborn baby!" He bellowed, yanking at her hair. "Using all of those so-called 'healing herbs and remedies', Bridgette was forced to give birth to an unholy abomination. She is doing The Devil's bidding, and it's about time that our treacherous little snake in the grass got what was coming to her! She must face judgment for her crimes, and be cleansed in the fire from which her union with The Prince of Lies was consummated."

The crowd erupts into a ravenous fit of cheering, shouting horrible curses at a young woman who only wanted to help the people that have so quickly turned their backs on her.

"Signe Hansen, wife of Satan, do you confess your sins before these good people? What say you?!" The priest hissed, and the crowd cheered. Signe was the last person that anyone would have suspected of witchcraft. She was a model citizen, a healer, and the village midwife. She gave her life to serve the people of Roanoke, and in the end, they spit in her face and called her the devil. It wasn't her fault that Bridgette's unborn baby was deformed, dying shortly before the birth. But all it took was one point of the finger to land her here, listening to this utter garbage before a crowd of hypocrites.

"Nothing to say before God or his children at all?" The priest snaps, his lips curling into a loathsome sneer. "No admission to your disgusting crimes, or cries for mercy at the hands of his followers?"

The young woman's lovely face winces at the words, her rounded cheeks stained red from all of the falling tears. She struggles to see anyone in the crowd who will defend her, scream out how it was she who helped their children through a painful illness, or how she would open her door to feed anyone who came in with an empty belly. Her hope was in vain, as only the ones full of rage and damnation would dare to look into her reddening eyes, the rest shuffling back to disappear into the crowd.

"Very well, witch," The priest continues, his thick fingers tightening in her dirty hair a little more. "Then perhaps a trade for your damned soul for another, even more wretched than you?"

The priest bends down to face the terrified woman, his dark eyes looking over her form as if she might turn into something even more vicious. His sneer returns at full force, and he twists his wrist to make her meet his judgemental glare. He calls out loudly to the jeering mob, though his stare was for her only.

"Name another witch who deserves the fires of Hell more than you!"

She gasps at the demand and screams as her head is twisted again to look out towards the crowd. Signe has never felt such hatred and fear in her life, and she scans the crowd one more time for anyone to tell of her good deeds. Her soft blue eyes fall on a white cat, looking so stunning against the dark mud under his feet. His crystal blue eyes are truly familiar to her, and she can see his mouth opening as if to offer her a comforting mewl.

"I know of no one in this crowd that deserves my fate," she mutters. "No one at all."

The mob of angry villagers are quickly getting restless, loudly demanding that her blood be spilled upon the soil. The priest is shouting, damning her to a fate that far too many have seen before. Just last week a man was pressed to death with stones in an attempt to extract a confession. With his dying breath, he condemned them all to Hell, taking his innocence with him to the grave. Signe wouldn't be the last innocent person to withstand these accusations. The village was ripe with paranoia and fear, and it was only a matter of time before they ran out of people to accuse of witchcraft.

Signe was yanked back towards the center of the platform by her long hair, never taking her eyes off of the white cat sitting amongst the crowd. A noose was tightly placed around her neck, and she knew that her time on this earthly plane was coming to an end. Her eyes darted across the mob one last time, hoping to find at least one pair of sympathetic eyes to comfort her. But instead, her terrified gaze fell upon the green eyes of the village drunk, Andrew. He was standing towards the back of the crowd, brows knit together in what appeared to be concern. It was surprising, to say the least, seeing someone like Andrew at a public witch trial. But he was there, frowning as he took another swig of booze to quiet the voices of his past.

Signe smiled at him, hoping that one day he would find the comfort he so desperately needed. It certainly wouldn't be found at the bottom of a bottle or in the arms of a prostitute, like he seemed to think. The world slowed down quite a bit as her final moments expired. The nagging voice of that hypocritical priest was drowned out by the sound of her heart beating in her ears. Little snippets of her life before this moment flashed before her eyes, and she recalled the moment she treated Andrew's neck wound, which was a lovely parting gift from the Indian war he served in.

She remembers the white cat, wandering through the woods as if leading her to some secret place. His blue eyes were so much like Marvin's, and she smiled at the knowledge that even in death she kept him safe from such ravenous people. Her eyes tried to find him amongst the crowd, but her gaze kept landing on the feline before her. At that moment she seemed to understand, and she sighed with relief, knowing that Marvin was safe for now.

"Stay safe, Marvin." She murmured, closing her eyes as the flooring beneath her fell away. Her body dropped like a heavy stone, and everything suddenly went dark and quiet. Her journey was over, snuffed out by the very same people she gave her life to help.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The crowd stands frozen, as if in a picture frame surrounded by instant regret for what they have done. Sadly, the white cat knows that the moment is temporary. Once the young woman has stopped swaying in the breeze, and her body is cut down and burned they will mutter that it was God's will. If she had been innocent then there would have been a sign from above to save and protect her. The absence of invisible hands holding her up after the floor fell from under her feet told them all they needed to know. 

They were right in there suspicions all along, and now Hell would have yet another sinful slut to pick at along with the others. The white cat moves quickly before the audience begins to turn away. His long tail bristles from the look that Signe gave him before she refused to point him out. That type of bravery and kinship wasn't made for this world. A small mouse scurries away as the feline maneuvers down a side street, it's black eyes confused that it's not being chased. The cat's pristine, snowy fur flutters as he lightly leaps onto a small wall heading towards the center of town, and with light feet, he balances until he reaches a shadowy corner away from prying eyes. It's only when there are no sounds of talking at all that the cat begins to shift. His slanted pupils becoming rounder as he keeps his gaze darting from the set of clothing on the ground back to the little alley.

White fur melts into pale flesh, and in the blink of an eye, a man is crouching on the ground where the cat used to be. His sapphire eyes adjust to the lighting as he stands. His nudity would surely gain him a night in an iron cell for displaying such immorality, so he's quick to dress in his white cotton shirt and trousers. The man could almost pass for a citizen of Roanoke, but his silver-platinum hair would surely give away what he truly was. A witch.

The man moves swiftly towards the edge of the village, slipping into the thick cover of the surrounding woods. This is his safe haven, a place where he can live in peace without fear of persecution. He didn't ask to become a witch, but the universe had other plans for him. Plans to heal and nurture those he came across with his gentle soul and vast knowledge of natural remedies. He's a good and noble man. A healer. The perfect White Witch.

But there are others that possess the gifts of the mystic arts, those that do not share such warm sentiment towards the human race. They are demonic in nature, and will not hesitate to kill those that seek to harm them. These Red Witches are dangerous and unpredictable, and he knows to avoid them as much as he must avoid the humans. He's completely isolated in his little part of the woods, and he often finds himself longing for a companion. But it's a small price to pay for a life unhindered by the cruelty of humanity.

The man is nearing a darker part of the woods, and he shivers as a cold breeze wraps around his barely covered skin. He can feel another's presence closing in on him, one that's accompanied by the sweet smell of roses. A raven calls from above, gazing down at him from the tree limb with piercing red eyes. He sighs, knowing he's been spotted. And the deep chuckle just behind his slightly pointed ear is the last thing he wanted to hear after what he's witnessed today.

"Such beauty, swallowed up in darkness like a flame in the wind," The voice purred, and the man could feel the slight pressure of another body pressing up against his back. "You're a long way from home, little dove."

"Just let me pass through, Damien. I don't want any trouble here today." He breathed, voice unsteady as Damien wrapped his arms around his curvy waist.

"What's the fun in that, Marvin? It's not every day that I see such succulent purity wandering through my domain."

The White Witch knows what's coming next, and he feels those long fingers digging deeply into his rounded thighs. Perhaps if he just continues on his path and keeps the conversation light, there will be no need to perform any sort of distraction spell. To say that the darker witch didn't have his charms would be an outright lie, but Marvin knows what lurks just behind the smokey eyes and sultry smile.

"Your gardens are even lovelier than usual," the smaller witch remarks as they move past an especially lush field of plump red roses. "Are you still using those herbs I recommended for you the spring before last?"

Damien's amused laugh echoes through the trees and Marvin realizes his mistake. His hands spin him around to look into the midnight gaze of the other man. The scent of roses surrounds them like a hypnotizing mist, and his blue eyes drift up towards the strong features of the most dangerous man he will ever know.

"That's adorable for you to think that a few sprinkles of broken leaves could produce all of the beauty around you.  My part of this land is envisioned by only my thoughts, and created by my hands alone."

Damien's fingers are moving again, but this time to more sensitive areas, and it's only then that Marvin pulls away. His right foot comes daringly close to a creeping crimson bud, and Damien lets out a hiss.

"Watch your footing around my babies, little dove, or I may have to clip those pretty little wings."

Marvin swallows thickly, feeling the lump in his throat. He knows not to test Damien's patience, but he will not succumb to his aggressive advances. Damien has been known to use sex as a way to enhance his abilities, and it's actually a pretty common practice among witches that seek out the gifts of foresight. Nothing spurs on a vision like a strong orgasm. But Damien would only be using Marvin, and he refuses to become someone's plaything. Especially Damien's.

The White Witch takes another cautious step back, mindful of the garden to his right.

"Please, just let me pass through, Damien. I only wish to return to my home." 

"Oh? And where were you coming from, my sweet? Another execution?" Damien scoffed, letting Marvin create a little more distance between them. "Those people are a barbaric bunch of hypocrites, Marvin. Why do you insist on meddling with such creatures, when you yourself are the very thing they despise?"

Marvin didn't even have to think of a response, and his blind love for those violent people all but infuriated Damien.

"Because they need me."

The Red Witch sighs with disappointment. So much beauty and talent before him wasted on such ignorant worms. Marvin knows that he’s special, as was all of their kind. He should be begging to spend time with another witch, sharing a word and perhaps, occasionally his bed.

“Who did they send to their prison they call Hell this time, my snowbird? I can see from the way your eyes fall that it was someone you cared for.”

Marvin knows this little game as well and makes a point of not allowing his eyes to connect with the golden glow of the other’s gaze. Damien is a skilled reader of emotions, even though his own are a mystery.

“She was an innocent,” he admits, “isn’t that all that matters?”

"Perhaps," Damien murmurs, glancing up towards the raven that was perched high up in the treetop. "You may pass through, little dove. But next time, I'll require payment."

 


	3. Chapter 3

The shambling footsteps of a broken man ring through the crowded tavern, drowned out completely by the boisterous laughter and arguing that came from the patrons of this establishment. The tavern has become something like a second home for Andrew, and the man behind the bar already has a mug of ale sitting on the counter awaiting his expected arrival.

Andrew keeps his green eyes on the dusty floorboards below his feet as he moves across the crowded room. He's drunk already, but it's not enough for him to block out the sounds of war and death that constantly echo inside of his head. He plops down onto the wooden barstool in front of the counter, almost falling off as he loses his balance for a moment. He's a complete mess of a man, and everyone knows it.

"Evenin', Andrew," The barkeep murmurs cheerfully. "The usual?"

"Stronger. Much stronger, Tyler."

The barkeep quirks an eyebrow, noticing the vacant look in Andrew's cloudy eyes. He pulls out a dusty bottle of Irish whiskey, one that he specifically keeps for patrons of a higher social status than Andrew, and pours him a glass. The Irishman murmurs a quick "Thanks," before tossing the alcohol back, relishing the burn as it slides down his throat and hits his empty stomach. A few shots of this and he'll be blackout drunk in a matter of minutes. But his plans are unfortunately thwarted by the pretty little redhead draping her arms around his neck. Andrew sighs, feeling her breasts press against his back through the thick material of her corset.

"You're in early, love. I wasn't expecting to see you until much later." She purrs, trailing her soft hands down his chest. 

"Are you open for an unexpected visit, Gloriana? I could use a woman of your talents right about now."

Gloriana giggled, moving around to face Andrew as she sat on his lap. There's nothing quite like burying yourself in the ass of a whore while buzzing on whiskey and ale. It silenced the screaming in his head, giving him something else to focus on for the night. He'd pay to keep them for a few hours, repeating the cycle of sex and alcohol until he passed out. It was pathetic. Andrew was pathetic. But it worked, and that's all that mattered to him.

"For you, love, I'm always open. Come upstairs and I'll make sure my voice quiets down the others."

Tyler shakes his head as he moves to another waving hand at the bar. There's no point in trying to tell Andrew to be careful. He still remembers the nasty punch he got in the jaw from the last time he suggested something wiser to waste his money on.

Andrew recalls that night as well, the memory blurry on the sides of the picture but definitely still there. He remembers spending the night in an iron cell but was amazed to find that Tyler had requested his release to the magistrate the very next day.

"You coming, sweetheart?" Gloriana calls, as she slips from his lap towards the stairs.

"Let me get my pants off first," he chuckles, as he allows himself to be pulled from his favorite barstool by her delicate fingers.

The two of them weave around a few dozen singing patrons, along with another few looking for some money to be made. Andrew's emerald eyes pause on a slender man with honey blonde hair and eyes that are almost a breathtaking shade of icy blue.

"Care to join us?" Gloriana whispers, giggling as her gaze shifts back to the Irishman.

The blonde man seems apprehensive but nods, following behind Andrew to remain inconspicuous. Sodomy was an intolerable sin and would earn them a brand to the forehead and a mutilated set of gentiles. Andrew knows that his preference for men could land him a short drop and a sudden stop, but he's become quite skilled at hiding how he truly feels. Sometimes Gloriana was just a coverup and Andrew would spend his nights in the company of a man. Perhaps this was one of those nights?

"This is Felix," the redhead mutters into the shell of Andrew's ear. "And don't worry love, he's discreet."

Andrew nods and heads up the stairs, with Gloriana leading the way and Felix staying a few feet behind to stop the questioning glances. He'd rather not end up becoming the hot gossip of the village just for a lay with the alcoholic fool known as Andrew. He has quite the nasty reputation, as well as a few dozen notches in his belt from brothels all across Roanoke. Felix isn't as picky as he should be, but with the penalty for homosexuality being so severe, it doesn't exactly leave a lot of room for options. He'll take what he can get.

The redhead opens up a door to the room that's far too familiar to Andrew. The sheets are still a mess from last night, and he can smell the smoke from his tobacco pipe sitting near the opened window. No one else uses this room, so it's no surprise that it was left untouched. Andrew practically owns this room and the whore that came with it. Though, neither see it that way. Andrew is just a troubled man, trying to bury his past in booze and loose company.

Andrew enters first, taking a seat on the bed. The redhead waits until Felix is inside the safety of the private room before closing and locking the door. Felix would leave through the window once they were finished, and Gloriana would take over in his stead. That's if Andrew could keep up this time. Sometimes the booze is just too much for him, and he has a hard time keeping his interest up. 

The room is spinning a little too quickly for Andrew, who's swaying slightly as he watches Felix glide across the room. He doesn't remember seeing the man disrobe, but he's pleased nonetheless. Felix has a great body, lean but muscular, and oh so soft. Gloriana slips out through the side door, giving the two their time together while she tends to other buisness. Felix is pulled down onto the bed, and Andrew's lips are quick to find his stubbly jawline. His kisses are sloppy and rushed, and he almost seems a bit too eager for Felix's liking. Andrew is pinned against the bed, his clothing still on as Felix straddles his waist. Things are moving way too fast, and Andrew's head is beginning to feel fuzzy.

His heart is pounding, vision swimming. The alcohol is making it hard to focus, and Andrew finds that he can't keep his eyes open any longer. His grip around Felix's back goes slack as his limp body relaxes against the mattress with a soft thud. Felix is frozen, unsure of what just happened. One moment they were kissing and the next Andrew is passed out, quietly snoring while Felix is left stunned in disbelief. He blinks, shaking his head with disappointment as he gathers up his clothing and slips out through the window without a word, leaving Andrew behind.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Just breathe..._  
_In and out..._  
_Hold onto your gun like it's a part of yourself..._  
_Just breathe..._  
_In and out..._  
_Hold onto your gun..-_

A blast falls from the sky like liquid fire, invading his mantra, and the next thing he knows he's running like tomorrow may never come. There are war cries from the enemy, but he's unsure if they are moving from the east or the west.

_Just keep moving._

_Move. Move. Move._

A scream breaks through as he tightens the grip on his gun. The trembling in his hands have stopped just enough so he can get a firmer hold on his gun, prepared to swing it around to the brutal ax hilt if an Indian gets too close.

His dark hair flows, catching a strong breeze as he instinctively turns to the left, and a roar of sound helps him to realize that he made a good call. The smell of burnt flesh and spilled blood is becoming too familiar nowadays. He hated the bullshit of war, even though he tried his best not to show it. But his country needed him, and like an idiot, he agreed to go.

He was alone, separated from his troupe when the natives ambushed them from the side. His shoulder-length chestnut hair was soaked with crimson, skin torn and bruised underneath his animal hide clothing. His green eyes darted around the environment, hoping to find someone from his troupe that survived the onslaught. He knew better than to call out to them though, lest he attracts the wrong kind of attention. Andrew moved swiftly through the trees, keeping low to the ground as he listened for footsteps. He froze, peering out from behind the greenery to see a few natives holding a captive down against the ground. He couldn't see much besides their dark hair and blood-soaked skin. But their voice was unmistakably familiar.

"Nathan.." He whispered to himself, feeling his heart catch in his throat. He was surrounded on all sides by three natives, and from the look of it, they were about to scalp him. His dark hair was clutched tightly in one of their hands, limbs held down as he kicked and screamed. Andrew couldn't just stand by and watch him die like this. He had to do something now.

The Irishman aimed his gun at the back of the native's head, fully prepared for hand to hand combat with the two remaining enemies once Nathan was released. He let out a slow breath, squeezing the trigger and watching as the round ripped through the native's head, effectively killing him. The sound was loud enough to alert anyone within a half-mile radius, and Andrew's ears began to ring as time slowed down to a crawl.

He was up on his feet before the body hit the ground, emerging from his cover and bringing the ax head down across the enemy's neck. It was as if he was hyperfocused, swinging the ax until the native's body was limp and lifeless. But at that moment he heard the most guttural sound coming from behind him. He turned just quick enough to see Nathan staked to the ground with his own sword, and the shock of that image had ultimately left him defenseless against the native's attack. Before he even knew what happened, a blade was at his throat, slicing across his milky skin until the blood began to pour. Andrew collapsed, holding his neck as the corners of his vision began to blur and darken, sucking him down into a pit of boiling black pitch.

His heart clangs against his ribcage with the fury of a war drum and with a scream he's thrust into the small dark room of present day. With a choked gasp, he reaches for his throat to push at his flowing gash of a wound but feels only thick scar tissue underneath his fingertips.

Panic has a stunning way of blasting you into sobriety, and his bright eyes are clear and focused as he looks around the room. His panting slows down to a deeper breath as he begins to recognize his surroundings, the ruffled blankets of a worn out mattress replacing the bloodstained dirt of the battlefield.

The blonde man is gone, as is Gloriana. He's alive with his dusty memories without a stiff drink or warm pair of lips to help him forget for a while. It's only when he grabs at his fallen clothing that he realizes that more than his time has been taken. All of his coins are gone as well.

"Fucking whore," he grunts, checking all of the pockets again, just to be sure. "Took everything but my own fucking name. God damn it."

Andrew groans, letting his weary head hit the pillow as he caught his breath. Even in dreams, his past comes back to haunt him, taunting him with the memory of this failures. Nathan was an unfortunate casualty, and Andrew often finds the other man in the back of his mind, looming like an angry spirit. He often wishes that it was him that died that day, staked to the ground while Nathan lived on to a ripe old age. He sure as hell wouldn't be wasting this precious gift of life on booze and whores, pissing away his inheritance while he slowly killed himself. Nathan would have made something of himself if he had been given the chance to do so. He had such passion and drive in his heart, and perhaps that was why Andrew fell for him in the first place.

He sighed, green eyes fixed on the ceiling above. The world is a cruel place, but unfortunately, Andrew is stuck in its embrace until God says otherwise. Lord knows how many times he's tried to eat a bullet from his flintlock, only to have it malfunction, or how many times his dagger just wasn't sharp enough to cut through his own skin, despite his best efforts. Every attempt he's made has been thwarted by some unseen force, and Andrew was angry and bitter because of it. Why couldn't he just leave? Who wanted him to stay here so damn bad?

Andrew shoved those questions into the back of his mind, forcing himself out of bed to get dressed. Gloriana must have had her fun with him after he passed out, then robbed him and left. He doubted he'd ever see her again. She'd most likely already be halfway to the next village by now.

With that thought in mind, Andrew pulled open the door and descended the stairs. It was quiet, the tavern practically empty at this hour of the morning. Although a few of the villagers would be filtering in soon to eat before the day began. The large kettle hanging over the fireplace was filled with vegetables and what appeared to be squirrel meat. The lower class wasn't privileged enough to have things like eggs or venison, and Andrew wasn't about to complain about it. Food was food, and even he had to work to earn his share. Tyler was kind enough to fill his belly before seeing him off, and Andrew was thankful that he had at least one person that cared about his well-being. Even if he didn't himself.


	5. Chapter 5

The chilled air of the early morning wrapped around his bare body, creating a blanket of goosebumps that covered his pale skin. His legs were bent at the knee, feet firmly planted on the handmade mattress filled with feathers. His breath was ragged and sharp, chest rising and falling like the waves of an angry ocean. Marvin closed his eyes, fingertips damp with oil. His lips were murmuring an incantation, the oil from his fingers marking his forehead and mouth as he spoke to the darkness around him.

"Through our eyes, we choose to see, the one that stills the heart of me. With eyes wide open and spirit willing, show me the one whose soul needs healing."

Marvin's oil-slicked hand was wrapped around the end of a phallic object carved from wood. He pressed the tip of the object against his stretched out opening, pushing it in just a bit as he continued to speak the incantation. His thrusts were soft and gentle, mimicking the way a lover would move as they made love to him. His breath hitched, body tensing as he came close to his release. 

"Show him to me. Show me my fallen angel." He gasped, back arching as his eyes rolled back. His orgasm hit him hard, launching him into a vision almost immediately. Marvin was hovering off of the bed, body bent and contorted like it was frozen in mid-air. His blue eyes were now a cloudy white, lips parted slightly. His spirit was soaring high into the early morning air, looking through the eyes of his familiar to find the one he craved to see. The white dove flapped its wings, feathered body gliding through the treetops as it neared the village of Roanoke. 

The treetops scattered from a sea of green to small splashes as the village grew even closer. The dove's small eyes flit while snowy wings slow for the dive down below. The shadows of men hard at work crackle through the daybreak, but none seem to find the dove worth more than just a passing look.

The smash of something vicious and sharp causes the White Witch to pause, and the dove's tiny clawed feet grasp onto a lingering tree branch. His beak opens in slight concern over the dark-haired man, only somewhat hidden within the shadows. His green eyes are wild, throat raw from what must have been hours of screaming. An empty mug of ale is thrown against the thick stone wall, and Marvin now understands what the crashing sound he heard was. The pain and misery etched in each line of this drunken man's face pulled at the witch's heart.

Marvin observes him from a distance, witnessing just how broken his soul is. But he stays put, watching as the green-eyed man destroys himself a little more each day. Marvin often wonders if he's actually doing him any good, casting protection spells over Andrew to stop him from hurting himself. It's obvious that he wants to die, but the White Witch has seen too much to allow that to happen. 

Andrew is curled into a ball, weeping like a frightened child. His actions are concealed enough by the alleyway that no one seems to notice them. Even if they did no one would bat an eye over it. It's been almost seven years since the war, and yet he can't seem to let go of the past. Or rather, his past doesn't ever want to let go of him.

Marvin swoops down from his perch, flying a little closer than he ever would have dared before. He's been watching Andrew from a distance for such a long time, unaware if the man even knows of his existence. Seven years is a long time to pine over someone you barely know in person, but Marvin has peered behind the curtain that Andrew uses to hide his true nature from the world. To them, he's nothing but a drunken warmonger. A pathetic creature to be pitied and made an example of. To Marvin though, he's so much more.

The white dove inches a bit closer to the green-eyed man, cooing softly to grab his attention. It's incredibly dangerous to do something like this, presenting his familiar to a distraught human. Andrew could rip him to pieces, severing the bond he shared with the spirit inhabiting the body of this little dove. But he trusted that Andrew wouldn't hurt a defenseless creature such as Devine, and so he dared those little feet to move a bit closer to Andrew until he was standing right in front of him.

Andrew paused his weeping for a moment, distracted by the sound of wings fluttering. His reddened eyes searched for the source of the noise, finally landing his blurry gaze upon the small dove before him.

The tension was almost immovable, just like the shattered man. The dove cooed softly, it's small head tilting with the knowledge that there was no immediate danger. Then with a muffled sob, Andrew raised his dirty hand, waving the bird away.

"There's no need to waste your beauty on the likes of me. Go and find some better soul to sing your little songs of hope and peace to. The village square is a good place to start." He slurred.

Marvin's blue eyes welled with thick and heavy tears at the words, and more so for the man that uttered them. This was no way for anyone to live, and despite the air of danger and rage behind his weary green gaze, there's softness and kindness there as well. If only there was a way to help Andrew see that he was worth every ounce of love and compassion as any man was. His suffering was not in vain, and the ones that he lost in the war was not the end of his life, but just a new beginning. 

"I said _go_ ," Andrew shouted, his voice cracking. "Leave me alone, before I do another thing that I'll regret for the rest of my fucking life."

The snowy feathers ruffle in the wind before the dove is flying away, but the taste of disappointment as it leaves can't be ignored. Marvin must find a way to help him. This moment between them showed him more than ever that Andrew was more than what the villagers saw, falling over in the streets and crawling out of the local whorehouse. The dove cooed once again as Andrew lost its shape within the whiteness of the clouds. He cursed the desire to want to follow the lovely vision into the vastness of the sky, hated himself for envying such a simple creature's freedom to escape its reality with just a whoosh of its pearly wings.

The familiar soared through the treetops, finding a safe place to land just outside of Marvin's domain. And just as quickly as it began, the vision ended. Marvin came to with a ragged gasp, falling onto the bed from where his body was hovering. His nudity was slick with his own seed, cheeks wet with warm tears as his body was finally allowed to react to such a sorrowful sight. He had to do something to help Andrew. And this time, he couldn't do it from afar.


	6. Chapter 6

The images of death and war are like poison to his mind, and Andrew is slowly succumbing to their toxic effects. But try as he might, he can't fight them off any longer. It won't be long before someone finds his lifeless corpse rotting away in an alley somewhere, covered in his own sick and tears as he loosely clutches onto his last mug of ale. He needs help, but no one seems to care all that much for a broken war hero, hooked on the numbing medicine of booze and meaningless sex. And why should they? What has Andrew ever done for them, besides save them all from a gruesome death at the hands of the invading natives? He's sacrificed so much of himself for this little village, but he will never see an ounce of gratitude for it.

The sun had already begun to set, dousing the land in soft shades of blue and orange. And while most of the inhabitants of Roanoke were heading home to their families, Andrew was nursing yet another mug of ale, stumbling around the village square as he mumbled incoherent words and curses. He gained a few sneers and harsh words of disapproval here and there, but none he really paid attention to. His movements mimicked that of a toddler learning how to walk, and by some strange turn of events, he wound up stumbling into the surrounding woods, leaving the safety of Roanoke behind. 

His blurry vision did little to help him navigate through the trees, and at this rate, he'd end up getting hurt or lost by the time nightfall hit.

"Fuckin' hypocrites, the lot of em'," he slurred, grumbling to himself. "I waste my time and lose everythin'. And for what? Should have just let them all fuckin' die,"

Andrew hadn't yet realized that he was crying once again, mistaking the wetness that ran down his cheeks to be from his increasing state of inebriation. But the way his voice broke with each word could have been enough to convince him otherwise. His foggy mind was running through old memories, digging up the very same images that he tried so desperately to bury almost a decade ago. He could see visions of Nathan, bare-skinned in the moonlight after a passionate round of lovemaking. His head lay on Andrew's chest, voice soft and body relaxed. Those memories were precious to Andrew, but it seemed that the booze wouldn't allow him to forget about them anytime soon. 

"Go away, Nathan. Jus' leave me the hell alone!" He cried, smacking his temples in an attempt to rid himself of those warm chestnut eyes. But it was no use. He'd only succeeded in giving himself a headache. 

The jarring shakes of his broken mind do what he wanted in the end. The vision of Nathan's gorgeous face in the heat of their last passionate encounter was gone, shattered into a million pieces and falling away to the bottom of what's left of the drunk man's soul. He hated this. He hated being able to dream about softer times. It did nothing but mock where he was today. Love and dreams were made for other men, better men who were able to figure out how to come back from war unscathed, not screaming themselves awake in the beds of convenient strangers. 

His feet move slower now, needing to focus on not falling over the thick roots of the forest grounds. Small creatures move away from the shadow that Andrew casts upon the clearings. Even they know that the man disturbing their home is leaking poison onto everything he touched. It's the fork in the road that finally caused the man to lift up his heavy head to make a choice. To the right, there is the lush undergrowth of a bright green trail, and to the left a much more twisted path that was tinged with darkness and the strong scent of freshly grown flowers. 

His green eyes only looked to the right for a moment before turning shakily towards the bleaker path. This had to be more than just a coincidence that laid at his feet, and if a path needed to be taken, the more disturbing one fit him the best. The trees here would have confused Andrew even if he hadn't been close to blacked out misery. The thick black trunks glistened with what looked like newly fallen snow, but it was warm to the touch, almost hot, like a slow moving fire. Bloodshot eyes lifting up, the sky above took on a crimson quality, and Andrew couldn't decide if it terrified or entranced him. 

There were said to be witches living in the deeper parts of the woods, though those stories were only told by puritan women trying to scare their children into behaving. Andrew always scoffed at the idea of such things.

More likely they were just crazed outsiders who would be able to do a parlor trick for a coin. Real magic didn't exist. True sorcery was just like anything else extraordinary. Just for the weak minded whose intentions were only to frighten the impressionable masses.

If almost by design, his emerald eyes become slightly more aware of his surroundings than before. The waves of gentle heat were off-putting enough to have his faded military training pull towards the front of his mind. The smell of flowers grew even thicker than before, and it's now with a dreadful turn of his stomach that he recognized the scent.

Roses.

Nathan loved the smell of roses. This path was cursed, and Andrew already knew that tonight would be the night that he would finally die. The realization wasn't a pleasant one, but for some reason, his heart slowed down to a calmer rhythm.

If Andrew had to be honest, he was seven years overdue for something like this to happen. Though, it's not for lack of trying. He wishes that he would have perished on the battlefield next to Nathan, and he would have died if someone hadn't tended to his wounds, saving his life. Andrew doesn't remember the encounter very clearly, but he does distinctly recall that the person smelled like lavender and herb-infused smoke.

His movements are still just as uncoordinated as they were an hour ago, and despite his sudden clarity, he finds himself stumbling to his right, falling over into a lush field of red roses. His head is spinning, blood loudly rushing in his ears. He can faintly hear the sound of something shuffling behind the trees, and his heart leaps into his throat when a low snarl echoes from the space in front of him.

His eyes are darting around, desperately trying to find the source of that threatening noise. He'll surely be dead before long, mauled to death by some hungry animal he can't see. He sits up slowly, green eyes suddenly locked with the piercing red stare of a large black wolf.

 


	7. Chapter 7

"It's amazing, the type of filth I find wandering through my domain," the wolf growls from the darkness. His large paws move towards the trembling man, whose face is stricken with confusion and fear. Andrew opens his mouth to stutter out a vague apology, but his tongue feels frozen in the bottom of his jaw, no matter how hard he tries to move it.

"Your apology means nothing to me, boy. My babies cry even now, their delicate necks broken underneath your drunken bones."

Andrew shakes his head no, his heart full of terror that he hasn't felt since Nathan fell to the earth. His mind is racing to figure out how to beg for a life he finally wants. His terrified green eyes shoot to the roses underneath him, and even though his body is heavy with fear and regret, he forces himself up to his feet. The wolf growls lowly, crimson eyes following Andrew's every move.

"W-what the fuck are you?" he choked out, backing away slowly. Each step backward is quickly countered by the wolf, whose maw is laced with sharp teeth, snarling in a way that makes Andrew's blood freeze in his veins. His back hits the thick trunk of a tree wrapped with rose thorns, yelping as the barbs slice through his shirt and dig into his skin. The wolf has him cornered, boxing him in against the trees. Andrew is far too inebriated to run, and even if he wasn't he wouldn't be quick enough to escape before the wolf took him down.

"You vile creatures destroy everything you touch," The wolf snarled, snapping his jaws threateningly. "You're like a plague, covering the earth in your diseased filth, spreading hypocrisy and condemnation like fire. You're disgusting!"

It's only when the wetness was falling onto his hollowed cheeks did Andrew connected that he was actually crying. Out of anger, pain or terror, the man didn't know, but he wanted it to stop. He just wanted it all to fucking stop.

The wolf advanced on him, the fire red eyes flashing as the vines in the trees above and below twitched. They fell from the branches and lunged up from the soil to wrap like green snakes around his arms and legs. Andrew gasped while they tightened. He was trapped. It was over. Death was there to take him to Hell by the sharp teeth of an ebony wolf. 

"Just get it over with," the man spat, hating his cowardly tears. "Foul beast of the forest or be you the Devil himself, just finish me off. There's no one who will cheer for my god damned corpse more than me."

The wolf tilted his head just enough that the bindings pressing around Andrew's throat seemed to pause. The man inhaled the much-needed air as the animal in front of him twisted its shape to that of a taller form. The thick black fur became the flowing fabric of red that rippled in the warm wind. The rounded paws extended into human fingers and toes, and the ruby orbs blinked to eyes the color of the inky sky.

"Y-you are the Devil," Andrew concluded, as Damien finished his glorious transformation.

The Red Witch's deep chuckle echoed through the other man's veins as he tossed back his hood to reveal his face. The bite of his tone from before was gone, and in its place, a deadly smirk.

"The Devil I'm not, though you flatter me. Luckily for you, I'm much, much more complicated than that."

The vines around his limbs constricted a little more, holding him firmly in place as Damien approached him. Those crimson eyes bled away into pools of black tar, and Andrew had never seen anything so demonic in all his years upon this earth. The Red Witch radiated such malice and hatred, pouring off of his cloaked body in waves like some sort of dark aura.

Their eyes locked, sending a searing heat throughout Andrew's body. It felt as if his bones were melting underneath his skin, and the man howled in unimaginable agony. Damien now held his jaw in an iron grip, peering deeply into Andrew's eyes.

"I can see your festering soul, squirming underneath your skin like a serpent," he murmured. "You crave the comforting embrace of death, believing that your pain will cease once your broken heart finally does."

Andrew doesn't say a word, but he knows that Damien doesn't want to hear the inane dribble that would surely spew from his mouth like thick mud.

"But you're wrong. You don't deserve death's kiss for the sins you've committed." He hissed, and the vines around Andrew's throat tightened until his windpipe was completely closed off.

The burning in Andrew’s lungs grew, like he was inhaling a raging fire. The edges of his already hazy vision were shifting in and out with the small amount of focus he had left. If this wasn’t dying, then he wasn’t sure what else to call this feeling of clawing at any oxygen that he could get in his aching body. This hooded monster was only toying with him, like a dog with a bone.

“Such nasty thoughts,” Damien muttered, his fingers interlacing elegantly together as the drunken man struggled. “Yet what I said is true. I have no plans to kill you. To do that would be a waste of an interesting specimen on vermin such as yourself.”

His green eyes open slightly, with a mind racing to figure out if he truly heard what he thought he did.

“Yes, yes,” Damien answered dismissively. “I can hear your thoughts. I can also see the nightmares that line the corners of your heart. It’s not like you could hide them from me. Those voices are as loud and entitled as your clumsy feet.”

Damien turned his head to the right as if listening to something that only he could hear. The silence is almost too much for Andrew to take, his muscles straining to break away from his restraints.

“It has been decided,” the Red Witch sighed.

The vines press into his skin so far that it felt as if they were piercing his flesh like knives. His green eyes closed, stunned by the shocking pain that they produce. His mouth opened to scream out but no sound fell from his lips, and in his mind, he heard the deep voice of Damien call out what could have only been a curse.

“Freed to leave, but there will be a cost of two. One swift to leave scars upon your flesh. The other, no amount of bitter ale will undo.”

A scream ripped from his lungs, and every single cut and broken bone he had ever had all returned to lash out onto his body with vengeance. Every inch of his flesh burned, the thick vines turning bright red like flames, and with a flare of black smoke, the Red Witch was no more.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The vision begins the same way that it always does, with a strike of ecstasy and a roll of the eyes until the vivid whites are clearly visible. His body is suspended, lifted from the soft mattress with an exaggerated arch of his back. The White Witch longs to see him again, but this time it's fear that drives him to seek out Andrew. It's suffocating, like a thick cloud of poisonous smoke in his lungs, waking him from sleep with a desperate gasp. The danger is more than the average mishaps that Andrew frequently finds himself in. There's an aura of despair and damnation around him, and Marvin can tell that something otherworldly has touched Andrew's soul this night.

Devine is already in the air, flapping his white wings as quickly as his little body could go. The familiar feels his Master's desperation, and it bleeds into the frantic movements that drive him to fly faster. But the darkened sky does little to help the poor dove navigate the woods, searching the void around him for any sign of Andrew.

Marvin can feel the tense energy of the little bird, clearly frightened by the rising heat and pressing darkness. With a twist of his will, he whispers to him to search for a little longer. Something is wrong with Andrew and the White Witch must find out what it is. Marvin hears the caw of the raven before can warn Devine to fly higher, and the pain in the dove's clawed feet radiate into his own legs when a strong hand roughly snatches the bird from the sky.

Devine's small black eyes meet the cold stare of rich brown speckled with glittering red, his ivory wings flapping helplessly against the firm grip of Damien's hand.

"How inevitable," the Red Witch slurs, as he looks over the fluttering creature. "That such a lovely touch of snow falls so easily in my fiery domain."

Marvin wills himself and Devine to be calm. Perhaps then the sorcerer won't realize what he has actually discovered.

"Good evening to you, Marvin," Damien sneers as if the other witch is right in front of him instead of the panicked dove. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your uninvited visit in my part of the forest? Looking for new herbs to save more of those beasts in the village, or perhaps there's just one special piece of filth you and your pet are longing for?"

The small bird's heart is racing much too fast, and the witch's deep laugh vibrates through his tiny bones. Marvin begs for the Red Witch to just let them go, though he knows that Damien has at least seen Andrew on this black night.

Damien clasped his hands around the dove's neck, slowly cutting off his airway as those dark eyes peered directly into Marvin's soul. This was incredibly stupid, risking Devine's life like this. What could he do to protect himself against Damien without his master there to help him? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"I could smother him in a heartbeat, Marvin. Or perhaps break his tiny neck with a flick of my wrist," the Red Witch murmured, and as the pressure around Devine's neck grew, his connection with the familiar weakened. The vision was falling apart as Devine struggled to draw in air, and Marvin's soul wept for the life of his companion. But the grip around the bird's neck softened, and Devine's panicked movements kicked up once again as his tiny lungs greedily sucked in oxygen.

"This is your final warning, Marvin. Stay out of my affairs," he growled, never once breaking eye contact with Devine. "The next time I catch you snooping around my domain, I won't be so forgiving."

The Red Witch clicked his tongue twice and a raven landed softly on his left shoulder. Devine shrieked, his small eyes transfixed on the ebony bird, wings flapping madly again. Marvin's heart broke again for his beloved dove as the sharp beak of the raven hungrily snapped, and Damien chuckled at his own familiar's eagerness for a snack.

"Let's find out how well the pretty flower can fly, Rapscallion. About five seconds head start should make the chase entertaining."

His fingers released the tiny bird and Devine soared up like a snowflake in a violent storm, the pressing wind against his face as the world underneath fell away. Marvin willed the sweet creature to move faster, and above all else, to keep his eyes on his surroundings. The loud caw of the raven is already so much closer than it should be.

The dove weaves through the strangling darkness, his stark white feathers like a beacon for the advancing raven. Rapscallion's wings are larger and he knows this part of the forest so much better than Devine. It's only a matter of time before he is ripped out of the sky in a flash of starlight and crimson.

Devine's panicked heartbeat resounded in Marvin's own chest, making his vision spotty and his head spin. The familiar was far too frightened to control, and the White Witch struggled to maintain the connection he shared with Devine. Rapscallion's caws echo through the bitter night air, drawing closer with each flap of his large wings. Marvin's control was slipping quickly, taking a huge toll on Devine as he weaved evasively through the trees. He'd just passed the threshold of Damien's domain, heading straight towards Marvin's hut with the last bit of energy he had left. But Rapscallion didn't follow him past the treeline that separated Marvin's domain from Damien's. The large raven just sat there, perched atop the trees as he watched Devine fall like a stone to the ground. His tiny body hit the dirt hard, severing the connection he shared with Marvin as his heart pounded against his chest like a tribal drum. In an instant Marvin was brought back to reality, falling onto his bed with a harsh thud. With tears in his eyes, he rushed out into the woods, scooping Devine up into his hands, thankful that his companion was still alive. But the dove was very weak, barely hanging on as fear and exhaustion consumed him.

 


	9. Chapter 9

****

Andrew is used to pain. It's with him wherever he goes, like a misguided friend. He's experienced he emotional pain of his beloved Nathan being torn apart limb from limb by angry natives and the mental pain of how filthy and worthless he is, but this pain is...different. 

The burn surges through every part of his body all the way through his bones. He crawls only a couple of feet at a time before he has to lie down on the forest floor once again. He doesn't know if the wetness on his skin is blood, sweat or tears. He just needs the pain to stop. To push his heart so hard that it finally ceases to keep beating. The smell of roses still hangs in the air as he continues to drag himself through the muck of the earth. The Red Witch's words are etched in the back of his head, no matter how hard he tries to forget. 

There is no way of knowing where he is at this point, the black edges of his surroundings mixing in with his own waves of consciousness. It's as if he's in a nightmare that he will never escape. His own living Hell surrounded by the sickening smell of flowers and his own scalding flesh. His stomach churns, threatening to expel every ounce of ale he's consumed in the past few hours. It feels as if death has kissed his chapped lips, ripping out his soul with a fevered vengeance, draining him of his precious life-blood.

Andrew crawls as far as his sore hands can manage, panting as the edges of his vision begin to blacken. His fingertips are cracked and bleeding, caked with dirt and crushed leaves as he pulls himself in a random direction, hoping that he's heading towards safety. His cloudy mind can't seem to rid itself of the dark figure he encountered in these woods, but it's clear that Andrew is being punished for something. Perhaps it's his immoral lifestyle or his diseased mind that begs for an escape every second of the day until he forces its silence with toxins and sin. Yes, that must be the reason. Why else would the devil take interest in him other than to punish him for his sins? 

And yet he continues to crawl like the maggot he truly is, praying that God will show him mercy and spare him this grizzly fate. He doesn't know how long it's been since he started moving, but the light that shines through the trees is getting brighter, and the air is filled with a scent he faintly recognizes in the deeper recesses of his mind. It's a smokey sort of aroma, laced with herbs and maybe lavender or lilac? He doesn't understand why, but it feels safe here.

His weary body collapses, unable to move any longer. The pain and fatigue he feels are piercing his bones, spreading like a plague until Andrew is certain that death for him is imminent. His breath is shallow and ragged, and his chest aches each time he tries to draw in air. His heart is stuttering, racing erratically as his vision begins to fade. A white figure catches his attention though, barely visible in the corner of his eye. It's almost blinding, casting a light from it that Andrew wants to reel back from. 

"Here comes the reaper," he murmured to himself, watching the figure move a little closer to him. "Sent from God to erase what I've become."

Soft hands are touching his face and shoulders, too warm to be imagined. Then there's a flash of dazzling blue eyes, creased in gentle sadness. Even now in the throes of death, he is pitied like the scum that he always was.

"Stay still," whispers the vision. "I'll find a way to get you to my cabin. Just breathe."

The voice sounds so kind. Too kind for the likes of him. Andrew tries and fails to push the blurry angel away. That must be what is speaking to him like this. The scent is stronger now, and he feels himself almost floating off of the ground. Death is so much gentler than he ever imagined. His arms hang in the air as he hovers like a ghostly cadaver, his green eyes closing as the cool air wraps around him like a cocoon. 

In the back of his mind, he can see little flashes of pearly-silver and sapphire, and it felt so familiar, yet foreign at the same time. He can hear the angel's soft voice in his ears, mixing with the reminiscence of a recently deceased acquaintance. It's a woman's voice, drawn out from a memory tucked into the folds of a time long forgotten. Andrew was sucked into the fabric of time itself, blacking out from a mixture of pain and shock as the apparition of silver light carried him away.

Was this what death actually felt like? Andrew's body was lighter than a feather, floating above the ground like he would if he were submerged in water. The cool morning air nipped at his pale skin, and the smell of smoke and copper soon filled his nose, mingling with gunpowder and steel as his body suddenly hit the grass beneath him. The air was knocked from his lungs, his vision spotty and blurred. But he could hear the cries of the natives as they hastily fled the area. Andrew's heart began to race, realizing that Hell had swallowed him whole, trapping him in battle for all of eternity.

His head turned to the right, and a guttural cry ripped from his opened throat when his green eyes met the cloudy chestnut of his dead lover. He never actually saw what had happened to Nathan after his throat was cut, but now he was able to see every sickening detail of what they had done to him. Andrew couldn't move, couldn't speak. He could only lie there and bleed as the native to his left crouched down to finish him off. Was this to be his fate? Dying helplessly at the hands of Nathan's killer over and over again until time passed away?

He was beginning to think so, until a blinding white light pierced through the trees, frightening the native away. That same mixture of smoke and herbs surrounded him, and his gaze was now fixed on the angel he met before his untimely death transpired. A flash of silver and sapphire filled his blurry vision as the apparition knelt down beside him. A pale hand covered his opened throat, and a language he couldn't decipher flowed from the angel's pink lips, closing the wound just enough to stop the bleeding. Andrew didn't know what to make of this, but his already flawed eyesight was beginning to blacken once again, pulling him even deeper into the pits of Hell. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

The cold trickling of water pulls his hazy mind into the present, and blinking his bleary eyes open he feels a damp cloth on his sweaty brow. His arms are heavy with exhaustion, but Andrew is just strong enough to lift up his hand to his head.

The soft material is too real for this to be a fantasy, and the morning sun on his face too bright for this to be Hell. A light fluttering sound has his gaze shifting towards a lovely dove resting its small head under a snowy wing. The cabin is small but incredibly inviting. It's as if it's surrounded by a loving glow. Andrew sits up on the tiny bed, and it's only then he realizes that he's alone, and naked under the warm blankets.

His body feels like it's been in another war with the way it's aching, and there are bright red marks all over his skin. It's as if he'd been burned with white-hot ropes of some kind, and then left to melt away into nothing.

The dove is awake now, and stretching out his wings. With a small break of his heart, Andrew notices that its tiny right leg is wrapped in the same soft material that's protecting his head.

This angel of the forest who saved him seemed to be caring for this pretty bird as well. It all felt like a fever dream. Too real to be fake and too outlandish to be anything but a drunken hallucination. That figure he saw out in the forest had to be something otherworldly. There was no other explanation for it. The forces of good and evil were fighting over his wretched soul, and for some odd reason, God wanted to save him from the pits of Hell, where he belonged.

The smell of burning herbs and lavender filled his senses, reminding him of the dream he had. That angel was with him on the battlefield, and it was him that saved Andrew from the natives that day. Or at least that's what he was led to believe.

Andrew cautiously looked around, trying to make sense of where he was. There were various plants scattered about, bowls of berries on the small wooden table and a fresh animal carcass roasting over the fire just outside the cabin. The sheets were made of cotton and animal fur, the mattress and pillow stuffed with feathers of some kind. It all looked so strange like this place was never meant to be seen by human eyes. Andrew's fuzzy vision trailed towards the alter that sat by the door, marveling at the different crystals and jars filled with odd tonics. But it was the mask he noticed on the small table that really captured his attention.

The mask is delicate looking and quite small. It looks like it wouldn't actually cover an entire face if put on by an adult. White etched with silver linings that seem to shimmer in the morning sun. The shape, however, is what gave Andrew the most pause. The eyes, and nose and cheeks of what absolutely was a cat.

Something in his heart yearns to touch it. To feel how smooth it is under the fingertips. To see if there is any trace of identification of its owner on the other side. He decides not to though, his hands still shake too much, and he doesn't know if the wearer of the mask wishes to do him harm at some point. 

"A cat mask," he whispered to himself. "What type of place is this that I have found myself in?"

As if hoping for an answer to jump out at him from a shelf, he continues to look around the small cabin. There are large dusty books with writing on the spines that he can't understand. A small teapot that looks like it was used very recently, so it seemed.

"You're awake," said a soothingly familiar voice, and Andrew turned his head towards the doorway to see a thin man standing there. The early morning light was illuminating his silhouette, giving him this ethereal glow that only confirmed his angelic status to the dazed man across the cabin.

"I was beginning to believe that you would never come back, but I'm glad to see that I was wrong."

Marvin moved towards the bed, a basket of flowers and herbs nestled under his arm. Andrew stiffened, finally getting a good look at the man he perceived to be otherworldly. His features were delicate, almost feminine in a way. His long silver locks were braided in certain spots, and a crown made of flowers rested atop his head like a halo. His frame was hidden underneath a pair of white cotton trousers, but his bare chest allowed Andrew to see the curve of his hips and the line of tattoos that ran up his sides and peppered his chest and back. They almost looked like tribal markings, but the symbols and language that decorated his skin were completely foreign to him.

"Where am I?" He breathlessly asked, eyes fixed on Marvin as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"You're safe, Andrew. That's all you need to know."

The need to know more was burning in the lining of Andrew's mind. Who was this enchanting man who had obvious saved him in those dreaded woods? He had never considered himself to have any friends who hadn't been destroyed in that battle years ago.

With almost a revered silence, Andrew's green eyes soak into the lily white skin that almost glows in the pale light. His blue gaze every so often meets Marvin's and there is an uncomfortable shifting in his chest. He doesn't like how it felt but part of him craved to feel it again. It was a different type of ache that he didn't understand, but for the first time in a lifetime, he wanted to understand more.

"Your dove," Andrew said softly, trying again for any type of conversation. "I think I've seen her in the village."

"Him," the sorcerer softly corrected. "Yes, Devine goes to into town quite often for me. My kind are not welcome there, so I had to find a safer alternative, lest I find myself dangling from a hangman's noose." he murmurs, setting the basket down on the table before moving to mix up a strange tonic. Marvin headed back towards the bed where Andrew is sitting and handed him a small cup with an amber liquid inside. The scent of honey and chamomile fills his nostrils, and it's oddly calming to him.

"This will help with your wounds," the White Witch muttered. "And it will help you rest. There's a lot for us to be doing later tonight, so drink up and rest. You're safe here. I promise."

 


	11. Chapter 11

It was Marvin's ring-clad fingers that gave Andrew's shoulder a gentle shake. He opened his green eyes to see the vision in white looking down at him. He was wearing a light blue robe that was almost the same color as his eyes.

"It's time for us to get you feeling better," Marvin whispered. "There are some clean clothes for you on the foot of the bed. I'll be outside getting everything ready. When you're dressed just follow Devine. He'll take you to me."

Andrew nodded before he fully understood what was going on, but before his mind was truly awake Marvin had already left the cabin. Looking at the foot of the bed he saw folded clothing, along with light pants and a flowing shirt. There was another robe, dark green in color that appeared to be a tad bit too small for Andrew's frame.

He was a little more muscled and lean than Marvin was, and the White Witch was soft and naturally curvy. Andrew bit the inside of his cheek, feeling that familiar tingle that spread across his chest. There was no doubt that Marvin was gorgeous, and Andrew obviously thought so as well, but he wasn't in the right mindset to even think about feelings like that. This being was far too heavenly to the likes of Andrew, who was the literal scum of the earth according to the villagers. Andrew happened to agree with them, believing every harsh and degrading think that's ever been said or thought about him.

With a groan, he sat up and slid his feet out of the bed. The early morning air was frigid against his bare skin, and he wondered how Marvin could stand the cold wearing what little he did. His skin was flushed in goosebumps as he stood up by the side of the bed and attempted to pull his clothing on. He was incredibly sore and stiff, his muscles rebelling with each forced movement. Even his skin was screaming out in agony, pulled tautly and irritated with foreign burns. He was just barely able to make it to the door where Devine was perched, watching him with an almost human sense of curiosity.

"Can you take me to the angel?" He rasped, unsure why he was even talking to a damn bird.

Devine gave a soft coo at the attention and fluttered his wings as if to try to give a gentle hug to the nervous man with sad green eyes. For the first time in a while something bubbled up from inside Andrew's chest, and it took a moment for him to realize that it was laughter. How very strange it was to feel so light inside of his own skin, even with the pain that was radiating from the rest of his body like flames. It was off-putting in a way that he couldn't put into proper words. 

The robes were just as Andrew had thought, just a little too tight, but he managed to get them on as best as he could. They were much softer than he first thought they would be, and it seemed to hug his body like a soft glove despite the harsher look of the fabric. He scanned the room for his boots, but they were nowhere to be seen. Was he supposed to go out barefoot? Thinking back to what Marvin was wearing, then yes, it seemed that being barefoot was what was intended. 

The man heaved himself back up onto his feet, wobbling a little more than he had wished. The pain was much more intense now that he was standing, but he had felt much worse before. This was manageable to him, and if it got him to be able to see that angel again then it was worth a little bit of pain.

The dove waited by the door for Andrew, taking to the sky once they were outside of the cabin. The harsh morning light was slightly irritating to his eyes as he tried to see where they were going, blindly following Devine into the thick trees until they came to a small clearing by the edge of the riverbank. Smoke from a fire rose into the clouds, and the familiar scent of smoke and herbs surrounded Andrew as he limped a closer. Marvin was nowhere to be found, but his clothing was neatly lying on a tree stump near the water. Andrew could hear a soft melody floating through the air, and he could vaguely make out that the words were not in English. It's a language he's only heard once in a forgotten dream, but the voice was unmistakably familiar to him. 

He moved closer to the riverbank, stopping dead in his tracks when his eyes landed on Marvin bathing in the water below. His long hair covered his back, sticking to his pale skin as he sang. But Andrew could still see those intricate markings that ran up his sides and kissed his smooth chest. 

Andrew was trying to be as quiet as possible. The desire to just watch such a lovely sight. The White Witch washing in a sparkling stream and singing such a sweet song to himself was breathtaking to behold. Unfortunately, it’s hard to stay silent when you’re in pain and dealing with a limp. The rustling sounds of his unsteady feet were loud enough to have the song stop, and the crystal blue eyes turn to face him.

“Oh, good,” Marvin softly said, without a hint of embarrassment at Andrew discovering him in such a soft and delicate way. “I’m happy to see that you made it here with such little trouble.”

The other man didn’t know how to respond other than to gesture to the little dove now sitting on a branch in a neighboring tree. Marvin's blue eyes followed his hand to gaze upon the white bird.

“Devine brought you,” Marvin asked, with an interested tone to his voice. “He usually doesn’t bond to people so easily. He must see your potential as much as I do.”

Andrew was confused by the statement, and by the soft giggle that came from the pink lips of the witch. He must have shown the puzzlement on his face. Turning fully around, Marvin lifted his arm out of the water and beckoned Andrew over to him.

“It’s time for you to begin to heal,” he whispered. “This stream is infused with healing herbs that will help your burns. Just disrobe and place your clothing near mine, and step into the water.”


	12. Chapter 12

Andrew stared at Marvin's smiling face, his eyes almost comically wide at the suggestion. He's never considered himself a shy man about his body, but he wasn't used to tossing off his clothing for a random person who told him to. Well, that wasn't necessarily true. Andrew had bedded more whores than any man really should. But this felt different. He wasn't drunk this time, and the man before him was far too pure to be anyone that would ever want Andrew's company in bed.

"There's no need to worry about anything, Andrew," the soft voice continues. "I'm here to help you heal, not to stare at your body. This is just about you getting better, and nothing more. I promise."

There is something almost hypotonic about the White Witch's voice, and Andrew slowly disrobed until he was naked, moving quickly into the cool water below until he was waist deep and already feeling a pleasant tingle on his skin.

"Why were you surprised about your dove bringing me here?" Andrew asked before he could change his mind. "You told me to follow him earlier in the morning."

Marvin frowned slightly, then tilted his head up to where the lovely bird is sitting quietly on the tree branch.

"Did I?" He asked, blue eyes floating back to Andrew's brilliant shade of green. "I'm sorry. Sometimes my mind gets so full of thoughts that a few fall out. It'll most likely happen again."

Then the witch giggled and took a hold of the other man's hand. With a gentle tug, Andrew moved closer until they were practically chest to chest in the dazzling stream.

"Just try and relax. Your muscles are so tense, and I know you're in pain, Andrew. Just let me take care of you." He murmured, and Andrew felt his heart skip a beat at how sincere this man sounded. No one cared to tend to Andrew when he needed it the most, but this beautiful stranger was offering such a sweet notion without ever thinking twice. Andrew wasn't just the drunken whoremonger stumbling around the village square. He was so much more underneath his wounds and alcohol soaked skin. Marvin could see true potential in his battered soul. He just needed Andrew to see the things he knew were there.

Marvin's hands wrapped around his shoulders, gently working the stiff muscles as he murmured something Andrew couldn't understand. It sounded like some sort of incantation, and Andrew furrowed his brow when he thought about what that might imply. Marvin had a very tribal look to him, like he was a living, breathing part of nature. His long, silver hair was braided in certain spots, pulled up in a half bun that showed off his neck and collar bones. The tattoos were strange on their own, but the more Andrew looked at them, the more he began to understand what exactly this man was.

"Witch..." He murmured, taking a step back. Marvin's hands had stopped mid-bicep, and the look in his eyes just screamed that he was afraid of what Andrew might do now that he'd been exposed. It wasn't like he was trying very hard to hide what he was, but Marvin knew all too well that his kind was loathed among the villagers. Andrew might try to turn him in to gain some sort of a reward, only to watch him burn at the stake for his kindness.

"Please," Marvin whispered, loosening his grip on Andrew's arms in case he needed to flee. "I'm not what you think me to be. I mean you no harm."

Andrew's eyes glanced down at the man still holding onto him. It was obvious that he was able to pull away if he wanted, but for the second time today his heart was being pulled in a different direction. Marvin's pale face and stunning blue eyes were almost casting a spell on him. He felt rooted on the spot, and he realized that there was a slight amount of fear in his soft voice.

"Are you...afraid of me?" he asked, and Marvin's hands let go of him completely.

"Yes," Marvin admitted, taking a step back himself. "But I would never keep you here. You can leave if you wish. Devine can lead you back out to the village. But I must insist that you tell no one of my existence."

Andrew paused for a moment, and then looked back up to the tree that the dove was nestled in, quietly watching him. All of his life he has been told about the danger of witches. They were foul creatures who hurt and sacrificed for their blood rituals to the devil. They harmed anyone who stood in their way, and despite his yearning not to think that he had already met his worst fears, the dark man from his walk in the forest had to be a witch as well. What other explanation was there?

"What do you want of me," he asked, "I have nothing that a witch could cherish. I'm just a depraved and soulless - "

"No, you're not," Marvin said sternly, and remarked how Andrew flinched at such subtle praise. "You are brave and caring, and you are far beyond soulless. Please, allow me to help you, and to show you that Damien and I are not the same."

Andrew's green eyes widen slightly at the name that was murmured. Was Damien the vengeful spirit he had encountered? The tall and dark man whose beloved roses he had stumbled across on his way to anywhere but where he was?

"Your words are lovely, witch," Andrew began, "but you know little of what you speak. I am not worthy of being saved, whether through God or from what your black magic can promise me. This Damien you speak of should have just finished what he started and left me to the fucking worms."

Marvin was obviously angered by the black magic comment along with dismissing his feelings so casually. Andrew was much more complicated than the White Witch first thought, but he still had to try and get through to him. Andrew had no idea what was in store for him once he encountered Damien.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for hanging in with this story. Updates will be more frequent now!

Marvin moved slowly away from the other man without saying anything further. The White Witch was furious about what Andrew had said about his kind. He _knew_ that Andrew was speaking at a place of fear and ignorance. Innocent witches had met their graves at the hands of the flames of villagers like the man he was leaving confused in the river, but still Marvin knew that the ways of Damien were doing nothing to help his cause.

"Where are you going?"

The question was strained in Andrew's ears when he had called out. Part of him _hated_ the fear that surrounded the words. Thankfully the pale man stilled and turned around, his upper half clung the wet fabric of the robe that he was wearing. Andrew shuddered at the sight, and prayed to whatever god that might hear him that he could brush off the twitching as the chill of the water. They stared at each other, with Andrew allowing himself to take in the white haired man in front of him. There was a soft quality to Marvin's skin that reminded Andrew of something otherworldly. Then the long hair that hung down low in a collection of now drying braids. The rosy pink of the White Witch's cheeks, fingertips and lips created a tapestry of the places where Andrew wanted to explore.

The green eyed man blinked, mentally shaking himself at the very idea of holding this creature like that. Marvin was probably full of hexes and poisons which could destroy Andrew in a moment. Hell, Andrew might be a slut who fucked women in the light and men in the darkness, but not even an _inch_ of his evil could begin to scratch the surface of what Marvin probably had done. Damien was a clear reminder of the wickedness of witches. Even with the healing herbs of the river, the surging pain on Andrew's flesh had only been pressed down to a dull and constant ache. The type of throbbing ripple of agony that Andrew had felt only once before, and that was when he was holding the dying parts of Nathan in his arms on the battlefield.

"I'm heading back to the cabin," Marvin answered, and Andrew was pushed back jarringly into the present. The ghost of the faded brown eyes turning gracefully into a stunning blue of the man still here. "I suggest that you return too. The healing waters are not going to stay here without me to call them to this part of the river, and without another to believe in their abilities."

There was a bitterness to what Marvin said that made Andrew frown hard. The assumption of his doubts was placed into the air between them, and hung there like some sort of disgusting scent of the dead and decaying. Andrew shifted his gaze first, with now his focus back onto the clear waters. He could already tell that something had changed. The burning sensation on the scars on the back of his legs and feet were redoubled. 

"What if I don't want to return?" 

Marvin thought through the question. Held it into his mind like other people might hold valuable things to the sun to see how they sparkle. Andrew continued to not look in his direction, and Marvin understood that the dark haired man was indeed fearful. 

"Then you do not have to," Marvin replied. "As I have said before, you are not being kept here against your will, Andrew. I am just wanting to help you tend to your wounds and make sure that you eat and drink as much as you can. Devine is able to direct you back to your home."

"Tend to my wounds?" Andrew said quickly, barely allowing Marvin to finish his last thought in his panic. "You mean that you can't cure...whatever this is? Tending is not the same as - "

"No, I can not," Marvin snapped back, patience leaving him again. "Damien used a very strong set of curses on you. They came from a place of hatred and rage that I do not nor have I ever wanted to possess. The most that I can do is settle your body into the magic that is within it now, and perhaps once you are more able to deal with the burden, we can reach out to Damien and plead your case to have the curses removed."

Andrew took a step back, and the water splashed around him as he did so. His green eyes wide as if Marvin had suddenly grown another head or two. That was a maddening thought to believe that that a witch so lustful for his fucking flowers would ever just take off a curse of someone responsible for them laying destroyed. Even now Andrew could see the Red Witch laughing hard at the very notion of lifting the cruelty of the pain that Andrew must now always endure. 

"You're insane to put any consideration that...Damien or whatever you call him would do anything to help me. And what type of witch _are_ you? Is this black bird of the forest a better sorcerer than- "

Andrew stopped his words at the chill of the water became like ice, and like a stone his knees buckled and he slammed into the freezing stream. He couldn't move, and he stared up again at the White Witch in front of him. The blue eyes had a soft glow that turned them rigid and fixed as the pale hands were raised in almost a defensive position.

"Do not doubt my abilities, villager. Never doubt what I am, _or_   what I can become."


End file.
